


Of Smoke and Gin

by TwistedWonderland



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Asexual Jughead, Be Careful What You Wish For, M/M, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of underage drinking, Non-binary character, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedWonderland/pseuds/TwistedWonderland
Summary: Jughead Jones knows the cliches. Don't make rash decisions. Always word your wishes wisely. And always be careful what you wish for. But even knowing the rules doesn't stop a wish from going awry. With one slip of the tongue, the world as Jughead Jones knows it is ripped away from him and replaced with something...almost perfect. But every wish comes a with a price and in this new world, is Jughead willing to pay for it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this since episode 5. Don't judge me. Also it's way to long for a one shot, so I'm sorry for the distinct lack of character interaction and promised AU in this first chapter. The second, and hopefully last, chapter will be much more focused on the Riverdale characters. Promise.

The bottle isn’t anything special. It was half hidden in the mud when Jughead caught it out of the corner of his eye; the clear glass stained with god knows what and cold to the touch. There was a thick stripe of masking tape that bore the word “Jin” in black sharpie halfway down the bottle right above the line of, presumably, gin. 

Crickets chirp as Jughead tips the bottle over, watching as the liquid fell to the mouth of the bottle only to be stopped by an old looking cork. The sun was setting, casting brilliant pinks and oranges across the sky and Jughead shucks off his backpack, placing it with a heavy thud next to the bench. He takes a moment to roll his shoulders back, feeling the satisfying crack of bone as he adjusts to the literal weight lifted off his shoulders.

In movies, Jughead always wondered how runaway teens and worldly vagabonds managed to stuff their entire lives into one bag. The answer, he realized, was the ability to skivvy roll your clothes. It saves space and Jughead never has to worry about losing another sock ever again.

Jughead had five rolls of clothes. Each roll contained a shirt, a pair of underwear, and socks. Four of his shirts, including his iconic ‘S’ one, were some varying degrees of black and the last was a very, very, very dark gray. He had two pairs of boxers, one solid black and the other a blue plaid pattern, for days when it was hot and he didn’t want his junk to overheat; two pairs of briefs, one dark gray and the other red, for when it was cold and/or he wanted some extra support; one pair of green boxer briefs for those days when he wanted something in the middle. All of his socks were white.

With all that space, Jughead filled with a two pairs of jeans and a variety of denim jackets. According to the rumors floating around Riverdale High, no two of Jughead’s denim jackets were exactly the same. Jughead neither confirmed nor denied these rumors, but he could admit, if only to himself, he was a stickler for a certain kind of aesthetic. Jughead considered for a moment unzipping his backpack and forcing his hand passed the wall of denim to the pencil case he kept at the bottom of his bag. But, being homeless meant spending your money on essentials, like burgers and dry shampoo. And, as much as it pained Jughead in that moment, weed wasn’t on that list. So, Jughead reached for the bottle instead opting to save the last of his weed for a special occasion.

The teenager wasn’t much of a drinker, and he certainly wasn’t the type of person to drink strange liquids from random bottles he just happened to find lying around, but Jughead felt he deserved this. Jason’s memorial was stressful, random wheel chair bound old ladies and secret fiancés followed by trying to stealthily return the suit he “borrowed” from the only dry cleaners in town. And, he’s still homeless.

The cork was flakey, chunks of it peeling off as Jughead wrapped his fist around it and twisted. His grip isn’t very strong and the cork is tight, so his fists bowl over the hard surface, digging into his skin. With a determined sigh, Jughead places the bottle between his legs, braced one hand on the neck, bent forward, and twists once more with a hard set to his jaw.

The cork gave away with a loud, unnatural, but satisfying, pop; the sound echoing in the silence around him. It was in that moment, when the cork was in his hand and the sound was still fresh in the air, did Jughead realize his heart was thundering against his ribcage, sweat dripped into his eyes despite the modest temperature, and the bottle’s cooled glass now burned through the denim of his jeans.

Then it began to smoke; a thick, purple miasma bubbling out of the neck of the bottle like a volcano, the smell of fry oil and salt perfuming the air. Jughead’s body reacted before his brain could, smacking the bottle with his knuckles and sending it as far as the minimal hit could. It bounced against the concrete of the sidewalk twice before rolling in a wide arc until it stopped at the edge of the grass. But the smoke continued, billowing and growing like some formless cloud seeping out onto the sidewalk. It snakes across the concrete in long, thick tendrils before slithering up the bench like charmed serpents and weaving themselves together into a solid mass.

Maybe it’s a boy. Maybe it’s a girl. But there was a person on the bench not three feet away who hadn’t been there before. Jewel-toned blue hair with matching eyebrows, a black tank top and faded gray skinny jeans with a dark leather belt. Their arms are bare save for the dark tattoos that spiral from shoulder to wrist on their right arm.

“Thank god you aren’t screaming,” they say, their voice light. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

Jughead’s breath slams into him and, in an unconscious effort to get away, he flips over the bench’s armrest and lands rather painfully on the ground. But, he doesn’t have time to register the pain as he gets to his feet and stumbled back. His legs tremble and no matter how hard he tries, Jughead can’t seem to summon a single thought.

“What the fuck,” he mutters to himself. “What the actual mother loving fuck.”

“Really Jughead?” they ask. “I thought you were supposed to be smart?”

An insult. He latches onto it like a lifeline. Insults are easy, insults make sense. “A common mistake.” He says. It takes him a beat, much longer then he cared to admit, before his cheeks color in embarrassment. Whoever, whatever, sits on the bench raises a blue eyebrow.

“How do you know my name?” he asks in a rush.

“I know everything about you,” they say. “It happens whenever you rub the-” There’s a pause as they look over at the bottle. “-bottle.”

Jughead’s eyes dart widely from the person to the bottle, his mind makes the connections, but he can’t seem to make his lips form the words. There’s something blocking him; rationality, disbelief, something that won’t make him say the word that balances on the tip of his tongue. 

“This isn’t happening,” Jughead says to himself, his hand gripping the chunk of hair that curled out from beneath his beanie. “I’m hallucinating. This is all some weird stress-induced hallucination.”

“Do you always feel the need to try and justify your reasoning to your stress-induced hallucinations or is this a new thing you’re trying out?” they ask, crossing their legs.  
“Of course,” Jughead says. “My hallucination has a mouth. Just great.”

“I hate to break it to you, Jug.” They said before vanishing is a cloud of smoke only to reappear next to him, so close he can feel their hot breath dance across the shell of his ear. “But, I’m as real as you are.”

The teenager gives a small squeak before jumping at the sudden appearance and tries to twist away from them only for his legs to receive them message a second too late. Jughead stumbles over his own feet and falls once again. His hearts leaps into his throat and he braces for impact, only for something to catch him mid-fall. His legs are off the ground, straight out like a magician’s assistant about to be sawed in half. Every neuron in his brain tells him not to, but he can’t help but twist his neck to see for himself. The ground is at least six inches below him and not a single part of his body is touching it. Slowly, he feels his body rotating up, his chest pulled by an unseen force until he’s upright. Whatever’s holding him afloat gives away and a jolt of adrenaline courses through his veins as he falls the pitiful six inches to the ground.

“You’re-you’re a…” Jughead’s tongue is thick in his mouth and his legs feels like jelly.

“There you go,” they coax. “Just spit it out.”

“A genie.” The word is quiet and Jughead waits for the moment when the camera crew appears and explains that his is an elaborate prank and they can’t believe he fell for it.

“Congratulations,” they say. “Have a cookie.” Their fingernails are bitten down to the bed and the cookie in their hand looks delicious. Tentatively, Jughead reaches out and pluck the confection from their hand. It’s warm, the chocolate chips still moist and gooey, staining his skin. Jughead’s eyes dart briefly from the cookie to the genie, before he throws caution to the wind and shoves the cookie into his mouth. It’s not just warm, it’s fresh from the oven warm melting in his mouth without having to chew. 

“So,” Jughead says, licking the chocolate off his fingers. “This is real?”

“Yep,” they say vanishing again and reappearing on their side of the bench.

“And your name is?” The genie smiles, a sheepish looking grin. 

“I’ve had many names,” they say. “But you can call me Gin.”

“A genie named Gin?” Jughead asks a small smile playing on his lips as he slides back onto the bench. “What kind of name is that?”

“The kind that puts you at ease,” they say. “Just like this form or this personality. It’s all to make you feel comfortable.”

“Wait,” Jughead says, his brow furrowed. “You only look like that for me?”

“Yep,” they say popping the ‘p.’ They twist their body so they’re facing Jughead and lift their arm into Jughead’s line of sight. Thorny vines weave from their shoulder to their wrist. Occasionally, Jughead will catch rosebuds and Venus Flytraps blooming at the points, but his attention is drawn to what’s engraved in his forearm. Three crowns each in their own vineless circle of skin lay in a straight line.

“If I showed you what I really looked like, you’d never be able to look at me.” they said. “Then, I’d never be able to grant your wishes.”

Wishes. The word send a chill of anticipation own his spine and for a moment, Jughead wants to wish right there. For something, anything. Every cell in his body buzzes with excitement, begging to use this new found power. But, the more rational side of his brain overpowers his baser desires. 

“So, I get three wishes.” Jughead says his voice filled with poorly disguised excitement.

“That is how this works,” Gin said. “And to answer your question: Yes. You can wish for more wishes, but I usually advice against it.”

“Why?” Jughead asks, eyes narrowing. Old _Goosebump_ books, the _Wishmaster_ film series, the old saying “be careful what you wish for” all pass through his mind.

“Ah, here we go,” Gin says, sitting straight up. “See I knew you were smart. You’d be surprised how many people start wishing immediately without listening to the rules.”

Jughead rolls his eyes as if he couldn’t believe the audacity of some people. “Idiots.”

“I know right?” they say. “So, first things first. Forget _Aladdin_. Just wipe it from your mind, because I don’t want you to interrupt me every five seconds with ‘Well in _Aladdin_ they did this.’ It’s annoying and rude. However, if you have any questions, feel free to ask, but wait until I’m done talking. Understand?” 

“Forget _Aladdin_.” Jughead repeats. “Questions are okay. Don’t interrupt.” 

“Good,” they say. “Now Rule Number One is a rule I call Always Moving Forward. It means you cannot wish to undo another wish. I cannot use my magic to undo something I’ve already done.” 

“Can I get a hypothetical?” Jughead asks. He’s seen enough movies, and yelled at enough stupid protagonists, to know that follow-up questions and clarification is key when dealing with the supernatural. 

“Of course.” Gin says. The broad smile across their face makes Jughead think they haven’t heard that that often. “Say you wish, for some reason, for a giant mutated fish. However, it becomes an issue. Maybe it smells, maybe it vomits up the bones of its victims. You cannot say “I wish to erase the giant mutant fish from existence” or “I wish I had never made my first wish.” The magic created the fish and thus, it stays. You cannot go back on a wish, only move forward.” 

“Always Moving Forward,” Jughead repeats, committing the rule to memory. “So, why is wishing for more wishes an issue?” 

“It increases the chance of something going wrong and leading to unforeseen consequences.” Gin says. “One of my previous masters wished for a thousand wishes and, after wishing his wife into a committed long term relationship with her yoga instructor, spent nine-hundred and eighty two of them individually wishing a grain of sand into a jar. Which leads into Rule Number Two. 

“I cannot leave until you make all your wishes,” Gin said, gesturing to their tattoos. “You and I are bound until they are all made. This means you can’t give the bottle to your friends and do like a Wishing Hot Potato thing where you alternate wishing. If they open the bottle, they get ziltch. Nada. El Zippo.” 

“What about after I make my wishes?” Betty could use a few wishes, maybe make her mother a lot mellower and Veronica could probably use one to get her father out of jail. 

“Also no. Once all the wishes are made, the bottle and I vanish and reappear somewhere else with no connection to you or Riverdale. The bottle will then take the form of whatever it is that is most likely to catch someone’s attention.” 

“So it’s not always a gin bottle?” 

“Sometimes it’s an oil lamp, sometimes a ring or a music box or a soda can. It’s like me, it takes different forms. Except its purpose is to catch someone’s attention.”  
“Okay, no giving the bottle to friends,” Jughead says. “Anything else?” 

“Yes. Rule the Third is probably the most important rule. It’s about granting the wishes themselves. I assume you know the whole ‘mischievous genie’ trope or the ‘wishes that backfire’ trope?” 

“A little.” 

“Good, because they’re both simultaneously true and completely false. When granting a wish, they way it works is that I grant the first thought that comes to mind. Wording your wish correctly helps, but what helps more is us sitting down and talking about the wish and the intent.” 

Jughead bit his bottom lip. “But don’t you know my intent, since you read my mind or whatever when I opened the bottle?" 

“No, opening the bottle is more of a surface level scan. Your name, personality, relationships, where I am, and general knowledge. But wishes, especially bigger ones, require more information. And even if I knew what it was, that doesn’t mean it will be the first thing I think of when you make a wish. 

“For example, let’s say you wish to be the biggest star in the world. My first thought could be sending you into space and turning you into an actual star. But if we sit down and talk and you tell me you’ve always wanted to be famous and then make your star wish I have more to work with. But then I could turn you into a famous movie star when all you actually wanted to be a ballet star or whatever.” 

“So the clearer I am with you, the more likely the wish will go my way?” 

“Correct,” they say. “It’s like a good relationship. Communication is key.” 

"And the final rule, Rule Number Four, is don’t wish me free. I don’t want it and I am perfectly happy where I am. Plus I’m like ninety percent sure it’ll kill me if you do.” 

“ Don’t wish for your freedom,” Jughead repeated. “Got it.” 

Silence fell over them like a curtain as the last rays of light disappeared from the sky. It was getting cooler out and Jughead pulled his jacket tighter around his body. The steel of the bench was suddenly colder than it had been and Jughead was positive he’d never get to sleep tonight.  
“Want to go somewhere else?” Jughead asks. “Pop’s maybe?” 

“Is that a wish?” Gin asks with a slight slyness to their voice that already told Jughead they knew the answer. 

“No,” Jughead says standing. He picked up his backpack and slipped it on before picking up the bottle. He turned towards Gin, whose blue eye brow was raised in question. “It’s an offer.” 

“Ight,” they say before reaching out a hand. “Let’s go. I don’t do cardio.” 

“Is walking cardio?” Jughead asks, stopping the bottle with the cork. 

“It is in my book.” The corners of Jughead’s lips twitch into a smile and he grips the genies hand with his own. Their skin is soft, softer then Jughead expects, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead he meets the genie’s gaze and the two are gone in a swirl of purple smoke before either of them could say another word. 

Jughead could feel Pop staring, his best customer with a total stranger who clearly didn’t belong in a town like Riverdale, but the teenager doesn’t react. Instead he seems even more excited than he was before, the all encompassing darkness piercing through to his guarded heart with ease. He asks Gin every question that comes to mind, how old they are, where they’ve been, if they’ve ever granted a wish for someone important. And the genie, in turn, answers all with a joyful enthusiasm. 

“So Jughead,” they ask. “What are you thinking for your first wish? World domination? Glorious revenge? For Canada to finally get what’s coming to them?” 

“What? No.” Jughead says his brow furrowing in confusion. “And what has Canada ever done to you?” 

“They know what they did. Canada has had it too good for too long.” Gin says, their lips pressing into a hard line. But Jughead can see the brightness dancing behind their eyes. 

“I feel like you’re quoting something.” Jughead says. The genie sent a sheepish smile his way, before taking another sip of their chocolate fudge milkshake. 

“But in all seriousness,” they say. “What do you want? There are no limits.” 

Jughead knew what he wanted. For his dad to stop drinking. For his mom and sister to come back home. For his dad’s shitty house to be warm and clean. He could have it all. No problems, no lonely nights, just a place to call home surrounded by the people he loved the most. And all he had to do was wish for it. 

But, there was something nagging at the base of his skull. What would happen after the wishes were granted? Would his dad start drinking again or would he reach for the bottle only to find he can’t quite grasp it? Would his mom be happy where she is, surrounded and choked by a home too clean and too warm? Would she try to leave in the middle of the night with Jellybean only to find they can’t cross the threshold? 

And even if, by some divine miracle, his wishes worked and Jughead Jones finally got everything he wanted. What would happen afterwards, when the genie was gone and the remains of wishes granted remained? 

“All I want right now is enough for another burger,” Jughead says, because he needs to say something. But, Gin perks up as if he’s said the most profound desire imaginable. 

“I can do that, but you have to be careful,” they say. “The word enough is tricky. If you have more in your wallet then a..” they pause to look at the menu before them, which the genie hadn’t looked at since sitting down 

“Five dollars for a burger?” they exclaim. “What the fuck? These better the best goddamn burgers in the world.” 

“Yes, yes they are.’ Jughead says in all seriousness. 

“Anyways, if you have more than five dollars in your wallet you’d never be able to have more than that. But, if you say “I wish I always had at least enough for another burger at Pop’s’ you’d always had at least five bucks on you. Unless he increases the price, which would be highway robbery, then you’d have however much the new price is.” Jughead bit his bottom lip. A test wish, something to test the waters before he wishes for something big. And, it’s not like he’s totally against the idea of always having money for a burger. 

“Okay,” Jughead says, steeling his resolve. “Let’s do it.” 

“Then just say the words.” Gin said, leaning back into the vinyl of the booth. 

“Like, right now,” Jughead asks, looking around. There was another night owl, at the far end of the diner, but other than him, Pop, and a waitress they were alone. 

“I’m granting a wish, not having sex with you,” Gin says. “Not like either of us would be into that.” 

Silence descended upon the two as the genie waited. Jughead knows he doesn’t have to do this, he can save his first wish for something else, but another part of him, still enamored by the idea of a genie, is stronger. 

“I wish that I always had at least enough money for another burger at Pops.” Jughead says in a rush, before tensing up. 

“And so you have wished it, so shall it be.” 

The teenager isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, fireworks or dramatics like in the movie that must not be mentioned, but whatever it is it never comes. 

“Did it work?” Jughead 

“Let’s see,” Gin says, holding up their arm for Jughead to see. The three crown symbols are still there, but one is now covered in the vines that criss-cross their flesh. “Seems like it, but if you want to be sure you can give me all the money in your wallet.” 

“Are you sure this whole genie thing wasn’t just a complicated scheme to rob me?” Jughead asks, but still opens his wallet. 

“Yes, because I totally would spend thousands of dollars on special effects just to steal eighteen dollars from a teenager.” Gin says as they take the money. “Now look.” 

Jughead does. The bill is slightly crumpled, but its still five dollars he knows he didn’t have before. Jughead’s mouth goes dry as he takes the paper out of his wallet, spilling change across the counter as well. 

“Plus tax.” Gin remarks with a proud smile. And Jughead, Jughead laughs. The sound bubbles up from his lungs and is loud and rich and music to Gin’s ears. 

Jughead couldn’t focus during his classes. His leg jittered randomly and whatever the teacher was saying was lost in the sea of white noise and Jughead’s mind raced with the possibilities. He pictured himself wishing for things, impossible things. Superpowers. Zombie Apocolypses. World Peace. World War. A utopia society only he could live in. They were marvelous things, and anything was possible, so how could Jughead be expected to pay attention to a lecture on covalent bonds? Especially with his new jewelry whispering in his ear. 

Rather than return to the bottle, Gin had shifted into an ear cuff that twisted from the tip of his ear to the lobe. The jewelry was hidden beneath not only his hair, but his beanie as well so he wasn’t worried about anyone asking or teasing him about his new accessory. 

_“God, I knew her!” Gin whispers as Jughead’s history teacher discussed the Lady Jane Grey’s nine day rule over England. _“She was sweet, but my god was she stupid. First thing she did was wish to be ruler of England, didn’t even wait for me to introduce myself. Remember kids, just because someone is book smart doesn’t mean they’re smart smart.”__

____

__

In chemistry, Jughead caught the looks from not only Betty and Archie, but Veronica as well. Sure, Jughead was never one to pay too much attention in class, but he’d never been as completely oblivious as he’s been. Only once was his ear exposed, an ill timed itch that just happened to occur at the same time Veronica’s eye drifted back towards Jughead. The glint from the sun off the jewelry nearly blinds her. 

“So, I noticed something interesting today in chem,” Veronica says, as she unscrews the lid of her water bottle after the four friends met up with Kevin and settled into their usual lunch table. “When did the illustrious Jughead Jones III decided body jewelry was in?” The other three teens immediately scan his face as if they’d miss some obvious lip ring or piercing. Veronica gives a sly smirk and Jughead sighs. It’s either deny or face the bull head on. 

“I got it yesterday,” Jughead says, removing his beanie. It’s one thing to take it off when he’s hot or his scalp itches, it’s another to take it off for someone. It’s his armor, the barrier between the shit of the world and his own sanity. He feels, not naked, but exposed. An Andromeda chained to the rocks, waiting to be devoured by whatever sea monster awaits him. 

He tucks a chunk of black hair behind his ear and allows the four to gawk at the disguised genie. Three twisted pieces of metal braided like vines along the length of his ear. At his lobe, two small crown charms dangle from a short chain while a twisted metal rose blooms near the tip of his ear. 

“I took you as more of a bracelet kind of guy,” Veronica says. Before Jughead could think of a witty response, Gin is whispering into his ear. 

“Well, we all can’t pull off the same pearl necklace like you can.” Jughead repeats. Veronica’s eyes widen in admiration and the conversation drifts away from the cuff to other matters. Jughead settles the beanie over his hair and tries to focus on the conversation, but can’t. There’s too much to think about. Wishes and whatnot. He always thought it would be cool to have a one of those weirdly exotic pets. Like a pangolin or a shark or a moray eel. Maybe he could wish for some unholy abomination of all three. Could Gin even do that? Make something as unnatural as a Pango Sharkray Eel? 

“So, you’ll come?” Archie asks. Four pairs of eyes are on him and Jughead feels his cheeks heat up. 

“Sorry,” Jughead mutters. “What were you saying?” 

“I was asking if you’d come watch practice after school,” Archie said. 

“Archie, in all the years you’ve known me what makes you think I would want to do that?” Jughead asks, raising an eyebrow. The ginger give a small pout and Jughead can see the same mischievous glint in his eyes he had when he convinced Jughead it would be fine if they left their dual family picnic without telling anyone when they were seven. 

“Afterwards we’d all go it Pop’s.” Archie said, hope as thick as syrup clinging to every word. “Please Juggie?” 

Maybe it was the way Archie used those unnaturally big and brown puppy dog eyes of his or that he called him ‘Juggie’ like he did when they were kids or when he wanted Jughead to do something he knew Jughead didn’t want to. “Well when you bring Pop’s into this how can I say no?” Jughead says smiling. “And stop with the puppy dog eyes.” 

Kevin and Jughead sit in the stands while the River Vixens and the Bulldogs run their drills. Kevin, hypnotized by the display of hyper masculinity, wasn’t much of a conversation partner, so Jughead was left to listen to Gin babble on and on while he struggled to read Othello. 

_“Listen, I’m not saying that Mayan ball games were better,”_ Gin says. _“I’m just saying that a human sacrifice couldn’t make football less interesting than it already is.”_

“I don’t know,” Jughead says quietly, his eyes flicking over to Kevin who may or may not be drooling. “Some seem to be enjoying it.” 

_“Well not me,”_ Gin says. _“How about we get outta here and discuss Wish Part Two? That Canada thing is still on the table.”_

“I think you should talk to someone about that,” Jughead says, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “It’s defiantly not healthy.” 

“Are you talking to me?” Kevin asks, his eyebrow raised. Jughead shakes his head, his cheeks coloring. 

“You’ve been acting weird all day,” Kevin said. “And not your usual teenage faux intellectual weirdness either.” 

“Gee why don’t you tell me what you really feel?” Jughead says, but there’s no real heat behind it. Honestly, Jughead liked Kevin. He was like Veronica in a lot of ways. Loud, outspoken, and fiercely determined. The only real difference between them was whereas Veronica’s bluntness stemmed from being lost in a still unfamiliar territory, Kevin’s came from a place defense. Strike them before they strike you. 

“I’m just distracted,” Jughead says as sharp whistle echoes below them and suspends practice. Kevin’s eyes flick towards the field, the Bulldogs breaking off into smaller cliques, slapping each other on the back and shoving one another out of the way in an effort to get water. Jughead finds himself scanning the crowd for Archie, waiting for him to shed his helmet and reveal the bright stock of red hair he knows so well. 

“Me too,” he says. Briefly, Jughead remembers something, either a very well believed rumor or a fading fact. 

“Didn’t you have a thing with Moose at one point?” Jughead asks. The other teen’s shoulder tense for a moment and Jughead prepares to curse himself for reopening an old wound before Kevin turns back to him. 

“No,” he says. “I found someone else.” 

The revelation surprises him, but Jughead tries not to let it show. Despite Kevin being the only out gay guy at school, statistically there has to be more then just him and possibly bisexual or maybe just super closeted Moose. “Anyone I know?” 

“I hope not,” Kevin says almost ominously. Jughead wants to say more, but Gin hisses out a small gasp of surprise just as a loud voice, possibly Reggie’s but Jughead couldn’t be sure, shouts. 

“Heads up!” 

Jughead turns his head just in time to see the perfect spiral coming for him. It In an instant he knows he can’t avoid it, it was thrown too early and he was aware of it too late. In the back of his mind, Jughead turns it into a simile. Like a comet racing towards him. Like a drill bearing down on its target. Like a- 

The loud, stinging thud of the ball colliding with flesh brings him out of his literary reverie. The projectile is mere inches from his face. “Watch it assholes!” Gin shouts, the football between their hands. Jughead eyes go wide; he hadn’t heard the genie shift form and he can only image what everyone around him is thinking. The teenager looks from the genie, blue hair glittering in the sun before turning towards Kevin. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t seem shocked at the sudden appearance of Gin. In fact he looks from the genie to Jughead for a moment before his lips curl into something resembling a sly grin. 

“You okay, Juggie?” Betty calls, and Jughead’s attention is pulled away from Kevin. The blonde makes her way up the few steps up the metal bleachers with Veronica next to her, their identical River Vixen uniforms impeccable. The loud clang of metal punctuates their arrival. 

“Yeah,” Jughead’s voice is dry and he bends down to retrieve his water bottle. 

“Reggie’s a jerk,” Betty says before her eyes slide over to Gin. “Good thing you caught that.” 

“Glad to be of service,” they give a dramatic bow, the ball still in hand. “Anything for a friend.” 

“You’re Jughead’s friend?” Veronica asks, her eyes roaming the genie. Jughead feels his stomach twist. Clearly Gin’s done something to affect their perception, but even a blind man can see that Gin sticks out like a sore thumb. Especially in Riverdale. Veronica knows this all too well and now, Jughead thinks, she senses something’s wrong. And she’s out for blood. “I’ve never seen you before.” 

“I’m just passing through,” they say with a smile, brushing a strand of blue hair behind their ear. Jughead takes note that their nails are now a bright blue to match their hair. “Jughead’s been showing me around.” 

“Well any friend of Juggie’s is a friend of ours.” Betty says with her unending optimism. Jughead smiles as he wraps his mouth around the water bottle and takes a generous gulp. 

“Trust me, Betty,” Gin says, sitting down next to Jughead. “You ain’t never had a friend like me.” 

Jughead couldn’t help it. He laughs and laughs hard. Unfortunately, he’s still drinking and the water already in his mouth is forced down the wrong pipe. Jughead coughs violently, water dripping down his chin as his body tries to decide what’s more important. Laughing at a joke only he gets or saving himself from dry drowning. Gin stifles their own laughter as they thump Jughead on the back, encourage him to cough up whatever water’s in his lungs. Jughead spreads he legs just a little bit wide as it comes up in thick, spurts splattering over the bleachers. 

Veronica, Kevin, and Betty pass a confused glance at one another, their faces wrinkling in disgust, before B and V take their seats in the stand directly below the boys and genie. Instantly Betty launches into a triad of questions, asking Gin their name (they give Gin Eden which Jughead also smiles at) and what they’re doing in Riverdale. Before long, all three are completely enamored with Gin and their tales. 

Jughead’s already heard them, the real versions. The ones with mad French duchesses and Arabian sultans and Polynesian elders. The ones where they existed in all times, before, now, and probably after. Jughead finds himself staring as they speak with such an excited energy, their hands waving and a smile that practically split their face in half. The sun catches their hair as Gin turns towards Jughead and throws an arm over his shoulder. Briefly, Jughead watches as their eye drifts down to the field before snapping back to Jughead. 

“So that’s when Jughead,” their voices raises and suddenly that arm feels heavier than before. “finds me in the park and offers to buy me a burger. Well, technically I bought him one, so I guess I owe him.” 

Jughead doesn’t know why they’re shouting until he feels another presence fall over him. Archie stands there, still in full gear, helmet dangling loosely from his fingers and red hair matted with sweat. Despite the padding, Jughead could swear he could see the heavy rise and fall of his best friend’s chest. The redhead’s eyes narrow for a second before they flit over to Gin. 

“Who are you?” Archie asks confusion lacing his seemingly pleasant tone. 

“Gin,” they say a lazy grin on their face. “And you must be Archie. Jughead’s told me so much about you.” 

“Really?” Archie says, tilting his head to one side like a confused puppy. 

“Only horrible things, I promise.” Jughead deadpans, trying to keep an even face. But there’s that unconscious tick to his lip, that warm glow in his chest that seems to spark in Archie’s presence he can’t quite seem to dull, that shines through his humor. Archie smiles, that brilliant smile he always seems to have, only for it to fall into something akin to confusion. 

“Um…we’re going to need that back.” Archie says, rubbing the back of his neck. Jughead turns his head, unconsciously sliding his body the tiniest but closer to Gin, to look at the football in the genie’s lap. 

“Take it,” they say, tossing it to Archie. “Tell your friends to watch where they throw shit.” 

“So Gin,” Veronica says. “A bunch of us plan on going to Pop’s after this. You interested?” 

Jughead has known Archie for years and he likes to believe he knows the redhead better than anyone else. He knows Archie isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but my god if he isn’t the most open and honest person Jughead’s ever met. He’s like a saint, always trying to do the right thing, the best thing, for those he loves. But there are still times when Archie Andrews utterly baffles him. And, as Archie’s wide eyed gaze bounces between himself and Gin, Jughead knows this is one of those times. 

“Um” he starts, face blooming into an almost endearing shade of red. “I can’t really make it to Pop’s tonight.” 

“Aw,” Betty pouts, because of course she does. “Why not?” 

“My dad needs me on a sight for some job.” Archie says evenly. Something stabs into Jughead. A fragment of a memory that isn’t really a memory. It’s a feeling, deep in his bones. He’s felt it once and it makes Jughead’s hands curl into fists. 

“Really?” he asks, hoping to keep the anger out of his tone. Vaguely, he’s aware he might be jumping to conclusions, and that Archie may have a very good reason for blowing him off. But Jughead knows Archie. Rather than outright lie, he avoids. 

“Yeah, really.” Archie says quietly. Almost more to the ground then the group. “Anyways, I should go. Practice is starting.” 

The cheap attempt at avoidance sets Jughead’s jaw tight. Once again Archie Andrews is avoiding him and he won’t tell him why. He’d rather run away then fess up to the problem. 

“If you’re going to be a dick about it, at least be honest with us.” Jughead spits. 

“Whoa, where did that come from?” Kevin asks. Jughead ignores him and crosses his arms. 

“Whatever, Jug.” Archie says. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He turns away and the action ignites something in Jughead’s stomach. Anger 

“You know what Archie?” Jughead sneers. “Fuck you. And fuck your fucking life.” 

“Jughead, calm down.” Veronica says and he feels her hand above his elbow, her fingers warm. But it doesn’t calm him. If anything the touch only fuels the anger, the rage, coursing though his veins. He shakes Veronica off and stares into Archie’s eyes, smothering that pleasant spark in his chest before it could grow into something else. 

“Do you even know how good you have it?” Jughead asks. “Mr. Popular Football God who’s just so good all the fucking time? Do you ever stop and think that some of us don’t have everything you do?” 

Archie looks as if Jughead stuck him across the face and he tries to form something, an argument, a plea, something to chill the fire in Jughead’s eyes. And instead, he says the worst thing he could. 

“You know my life isn’t perfect,” he says. “You know that.” 

And yes, Jughead does. But that doesn’t placate him. Archie was abused by someone he trusts, someone who he though cared for him, and somewhere beneath the anger Jughead knows this. But he also knows Archie had a shoulder to cry on, he has his dad, he has Betty and Veronica, he has Valerie and the football team and people who care. What does Jughead have? A closet, a backpack stuffed with his clothes, and a dad who let him walk out the door. 

“Move your asses,” Cheryl calls from the field. “The River Vixens wait for no woman.” They ignore her. 

“Well it’s a lot better than mine,” Jughead spits. “You have no idea how much I wish I had the perfect life.” 

The words are out of his lips before he could think and his heart skips a beat a moment later. Archie says something, but Jughead doesn’t hear it. He spins on his heel, so fast his vision swims, and his mouth is open to say…Jughead isn’t sure what he was going to say, but he never gets the chance. Gin’s eyes, dark brown he realizes, are huge. Jughead can see every emotion on their face, horror, sadness, anger, disappointment, and fear all fighting for dominance before hardening into something that chills Jughead to the core. Resolve. 

Then Jughead’s world turns on its head as his eyes fall shut. 

_It is not the worst wish they have ever granted. They have granted far worse wishes to far worst masters. They have killed with their wishes. They have scarred and been with their wishes. They have mutilated with their wishes. And they have granted them all, because they are bound, because they are a slave to the bottle. But, there have been other wishes, good ones. For love. For happiness. For friendship and health and charity. They try to remember those more than the others. But this wish is more than others. This wish requires so much more._

_They catch him before the others can react, dipping low to their knees to catch the boy. One arm under his knees and the other across his shoulder blades. To the naked eye he looked almost peaceful, but even asleep they can feel the weight on the world on his shoulders. Jughead Jones, a self crowned king to a kingdom that has forgotten, forsaken him. As they rise, their eye catches his friend. _Archie Andrews_ their mind supplies. In his dark brown eyes, they are surprised to see something they have not seen in a non-master before. There is no surprise or shock or confusion. Instead they see fire. Fire that burns fierce and long and true. He wants their master, the boy they cradle in their arms. He wants him to be safe. To be loved. He wants to guard him against the world and burn away the fear and doubt and sadness at the expense of his own._

_It is admirable._

_It is foolish._

_It is brave._

_And it is love, so pure and so good it almost pains them extinguish it. But they do, because they must. Because that is the master’s wish._

_They vanish and it’s almost like diving into a rainbow. It’s bright swirls of brilliant colors. Yellows and blues and purples and pinks and reds and so, so much more. It lasts only a second, but what a beautiful second it was. It is nothing like the prison. The lamb or bottle or box or ring where they choke on their own smoke and ashes._

_The field is not bare. Football players ready for more drills, lazily tossing a practice ball and stretching, but they spare them little thought. They appear in the center, where there will be enough room to work, and send the players away. To the sidelines where they will not interfere. Vaguely they can hear shouts, confusion and fear cut through the air like a knife, but there is work to be done. Wishes to be granted._

_They kneel, laying their master flat suspended in the air. He’s so young. Not the youngest and not the most naïve, but there’s something to his face. A youthful glow and a brilliant smile. Their fingers ghost up over his cheeks bones, soft and delicate, before easing his crown off his head. Black hair, messy and matted, spring free. He won’t need it.  
I wish I had the perfect life._

_Part of them knows it wasn’t meant to be his second wish. It was said in anger, in a fit of emotion that blinded him to the words that danced on his tongue. But it doesn’t matter what he meant, not now. Not after the words have been said and the wish set in motion. Above them, the blue skies bruise into a dark purple before blackening completely. The wind picks up, fierce and unyielding, as the wish thunders against their chest, begging to be free and made real. They wonder, for a moment as they have in so many moments before, if this is what a heartbeat feels like. Painful. Loud. Their purpose._

_They place a soft kiss on the boy’s forehead and push. Push the beating wish up their chest and into their master._

_“Goodbye Jughead Jones,” they say as the earth below the boy splits into a hole, black and empty and waiting. Then he breaks apart, his skin, his bones, his blood burning away into purple smoke that disappears down, down, down the rabbit hole until there is no more. It was quick. It was painless. It was only the beginning._

_The hole closes and they already know what will happen next. Behind them, Archie Andrews reaches out. His hands are claws and they can feel the anger, the fear, boil and fester in his veins. He wants to kill them. He wants to shake them and bring him back. He wants to see his best friend. He wants to hold him in his arms and tell him it’s okay. It’s all okay._

_He turns them, his fingers dig violently into their shoulder and there is an angry sneer seared across his face. He wants to look strong. He wants to look like he’s in control. He wants them not to see the fear, the sorrow, the confusion, the absolute heartbreak that beats in his heart._

_He wants Jughead Jones._

_“He loved you,” They say before he could form a question. “He loved you as you did him.”_

_They pull away and the teenager’s fingers pull through smoke that slips silently through his fingers until they are whole. He blinks his big, glossy eyes at them. He doesn’t turn to the others who are gathered at the sidelines. The others haven’t moved. The others won’t move. Not towards whatever they are or towards whatever they’ve done. Save Archie, who did move, who will always move for Jughead Jones. They blink at the boy, their fist curling into the beanie as they watch his lips form the question they always ask._

_“Why?”_

_They turn their head away from Archie, towards the sky._

_“One life affects another which affects another and another and another until all lives have been touched by one. And, thus, to change one life, they must change them all.” They say._

_“What?” It doesn’t answer his question. “What happened to Jughead? What did you do to him? What are you?”_

_His anger infects his voice, turning it sharp. But his fear keeps him still, rooted to the ground._

_“I’m sorry.” They say. Maybe they mean it, but they don’t think so. The wills, the emotions, of others who are not their master mean little to them. And yet, there is a sadness to the boy, to have loved and lost and never known you have done either. “Your world is ending. You don’t have long.”_

_They offer him the crown. It’s not a peace offering. It is a comfort, a final token to enjoy before he is gone._

_“My magic will tear apart the fabric of reality,” they say. “It will cut the threads of time until everything that has ever been is dead and gone. And when there is nothing, it will remake the world Jughead has desired. The perfect life.”_

_The black sky cracks, long and silver and jagged, cutting from one horizon to the other. Then another crack splinters off from the first. And another. And another. The boy reaches out and takes the crown._

_“Why?” Archie asks, his cheeks wet with tears as he holds the beanie to his chest._

_“Because he wished it,” they say. “And so he has wished it, so shall it be.”_

_Above them, the sky is a mosaic of cracks one final time before it collapses blanketing the world before anyone could react._

**Author's Note:**

> Can you name all the genie references?
> 
> Obligatory plug for tumblr @twistedwonderlandbrokenoz


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